The arrow didn't fly like ordinary shafts.
Instead, it burst outward in mid-air, expanding and then began to transform.
Wings of pure energy unfurled, and a colossal Garuda took form, its beak sharp as lightning, talons long as spears. Carrying the power of the mount of Lord Vishnu, the divyastra let out a piercing cry as it dove.
Aghasura, who was already stretching forward, couldn't dodge this attack by surprise. Hence, he could only strike upward, aiming at the incoming garuda. But the divyastra was faster and stronger.
The Garuda's talons closed around the serpent's thick neck. Its beak tore through scales like parchment. A blinding flash of golden light erupted afterward.
When the glare faded, Aghasura's body dropped from the sky like a felled tree.
It hit the ground with earth-shaking force, coiling once in its death throes before going still.
The serpent shape shimmered and then dissolved. In its place lay the true form of the asura—hulking, horned where divine energy of garuda had burned through. Smoke rose lazily from the corpse.
Steering the chariot, Karna descended to the ground.
Karna then leaped down and walked toward the warrior, who stood leaning on his mace, with his chest heaving, watching the asura's dead body with wary eyes.
The man straightened as Karna approached. He brought the mace to rest against the ground and bowed deeply, fist to chest.
"Thank you, noble one," he said, voice rough from shouting over the chaos. "Without your intervention, that Asura would have ended me."
Karna studied him—tall, broad-shouldered, features strong but slightly older, perhaps no more than forty. Scars crisscrossed his forearms; his armor bore the marks of many battles. Yet his eyes were clear and steady.
Karna inclined his head in return.
"Who are you?" he asked gently. "What is your name, warrior?"
The man met his gaze without flinching.
"I am Srutayudha, nephew of King Chitrangada. Vassal lord of Odras (a region in Uttara Kalinga)."
Karna's expression softened into a small, genuine smile. He glanced at the mace again—its head still glowing faintly blue, as though remembering its own divine origin.
"Nice mace," he said simply.
Srutayudha's grip tightened proudly on the shaft. "Lord Varuna himself gifted it to me," he replied. "He appeared after years of austerity and devotion on the shores of the eastern sea. This weapon carries his blessing."
Karna nodded slowly, understanding settling in his eyes. "Good," he said. "And since you carry such a celestial weapon, I hope you are a true protector of dharma. Not someone who uses it for convenience, or pride, or petty vengeance."
Srutayudha straightened even taller, pride flashing across his soot-streaked face.
"Of course," he answered without hesitation. "Power is not for showing off, Rajan. It is not for personal glory or to crush the weak. We take up arms only to shield dharma, to stand between adharma and the innocent. Anything else would make us no better than the demons we fight."
Karna looked at him for a long moment. Then he gave a single, approving nod.
"I am glad to hear it," he said quietly. "The world has too many who forget that truth."
Later that night, after the last fires had been beaten down and the wounded carried to the healers' tents, the palace of Rajapura stood scarred but unbroken.
Inside the royal audience hall, Karna sat across from King Chitrangada on low cushions.
The older king's arm was bound in fresh linen, a deep gash from Aghasura's venomous tail that occurred before Karna's arrival. Chitrangada's face was lined with exhaustion and grief, but his eyes remained steady.
Karna spoke first, voice low and rough.
"I apologize, Maharaj."
Chitrangada looked up.
Karna continued, eyes fixed on the floor between them. "This is all because of me. Kamsa's hatred was aimed at my head, but when he failed to strike me, he attacked you and your city—your people—paid the price. Hundreds of Innocents died tonight because of enmity that had nothing to do with them. That guilt… I cannot wipe it away. I can never bring back the lives lost here tonight."
He lifted his gaze, meeting Chitrangada's directly.
"But I can make sure it never happens again."
His voice hardened, each word deliberate.
"I promise you this: Kamsa will not see the light of another day. I swear it—on the name of my father, on the dharma I live by. I will eradicate this evil from Bharatvarsh. No more asuras will descend on cities because of one tyrant's pride."
Chitrangada listened in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound.
"Karna… Son… listen to me carefully. Kamsa is not just another king who is a tyrant. He is stronger than you think—far stronger. There is a reason why he could command Asuras."
He drew a slow breath and narrated the story.
"You know the stories, but let me tell you the truth of his birth. Kamsa was born to Ugrasena, king of the Yadavas. But the blood in his veins was never fully mortal. His mother had been possessed by an asura during her pregnancy—an ancient rakshasa who sought to be reborn through the royal line. When Kamsa emerged, he carried that Asuric blood with him. From childhood, he was cruel and violent. When his father tried to curb him, Kamsa overthrew Maharaj Ugrasena in a single bloody night, threw his own father into chains, and seized the throne of Mathura. Since then, he has ruled through terror, surrounding himself with asuras loyal to him, demons who answer only to his call. Shukracharya himself is said to have blessed his reign, although it is a rumor. But knowing how he could command such asuras, it could be true."
Chitrangada paused, eyes searching Karna's face. Then continued.
"He has many such asuras under his command. More than you faced tonight. If you march on Mathura alone, even with your enormous strength, it is very difficult for you to kill him. Moreover, Kamsa wouldn't hesitate to use his own innocent citizens as hostages to pressure you."
He leaned back, softening his voice as he said at last. "Son… how about I send a peaceful treaty instead, through Maharaj Jarasandha. You were friends with him, and he is Kamsa's father-in-law. We can stop everything right here."
Karna listened without interrupting. When Chitrangada finished, silence settled heavily between them.
Then Karna rose slowly to his feet and shook his head. "No," he said flatly.
Chitrangada's brows rose.
Karna's voice grew firm as he then said, "We cannot let such evil continue to breathe on this earth. Not anymore. Treaties and mediators only buy time for tyrants to sharpen their blades. Kamsa has chosen adharma. He has chosen to send death to innocent cities because of wounded pride. He has to pay for what he has done."
He turned toward the open doors and clenched his fists.
"I am going to Mathura. And by the time my father rises, Kamsa will turn into a corpse."
Chitrangada opened his mouth to protest, but the words died when he saw the look on Karna's face.
Karna bowed once, respectfully. "Take care of your people, Maharaj. I will return when it is done."
Then he walked out into the night. The golden chariot waited in the palace courtyard, horses already stamping with restless energy. Karna climbed aboard.
One word—"Mathura"—and the chariot lifted, wheels turning in the air, streaking toward the north west.
At the same moment, in a stretch of wilderness on the outskirts of the Dasarna kingdom—where the borders of Uttara Kalinga blurred into rolling hills and dense forest—a small military camp slept under the new moon.
Tents stood in neat rows. Sentries walked slow circuits, spears over shoulders. A low fire crackled in the center, casting weak light on the faces of resting soldiers. The Sun flag made it evident that it belonged to Dakhina Kalinga. Basically, this is the group that has Dakshina Kalinga's elite troop and Rajguru. After more than a week of journey, they reached this place and formed a camp.
At present, one figure moved through the shadows—quiet, unhurried. He wore the plain armor of a common soldier of Dakshina Kalinga, helmet low over his eyes. He slipped past the outer pickets without challenge, nodding casually to a drowsy guard who barely glanced his way.
Vyomasura smiled beneath the borrowed face of the soldier whom he killed and stolen his clothes a while ago.
He moved toward the largest tent at the center.
Vyomasura's smile widened as he murmured. "Alright. Now, let's do the job Maharaj Kamsa assigned me to do."
*
Almost at the same time in Kanipura, the palace had fallen into sudden chaos.
Roshini had been resting in the inner chamber, propped on pillows, breathing through another wave of discomfort. The midwives had assured her it was only false pains, that the twins were not yet ready to be born. She had believed them.
Then the first true contraction hit—sharp, deep, stealing her breath.
She gasped, hand flying to her belly. Sweat broke across her forehead in an instant.
"Maharani!" one midwife cried, rushing forward.
Another ran to the door, shouting for the head vaidya.
Word spread like fire through the corridors.
"The queen is in labor!"
"Fetch the royal physicians—now!"
Servants hurried with hot water, clean cloths, and herbs. The palace, so quiet moments before, was filled with urgent voices and running feet.
Roshini gripped the edge of the bed, breathing hard through clenched teeth. She looked toward the empty space beside her—the place where Karna should have been sitting, holding her hand, whispering strength.
He was not there at the moment.
Tears stung her eyes, not from pain, but from the sudden, aching absence.
"Husband…" she whispered.
The midwives worked quickly, calm voices cutting through the panic.
"Breathe, maharani. Slow. In… out."
But Roshini's gaze kept drifting to the balcony doors, open to the night sky, as though willing the golden chariot to appear.
It did not.
The contractions came faster.